


i'll never surrender, there's nothing but a victory

by LadyAlice101



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Political!Jon, Smut, s8 spec, that about sums it up, trailer compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 22:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18061049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAlice101/pseuds/LadyAlice101
Summary: It’s getting very late.He should be here by now.// or: pretty much just sansa and jon discussing what went down while he was away.





	i'll never surrender, there's nothing but a victory

**Author's Note:**

> Look. This was born from a combination of a dream I had last night, my general anxiety over s8, and a post I saw yesterday. https://thedreamergirlofsummer.tumblr.com/post/183316479800/im-sorry-arya-this-scene-made-me-hate-you 
> 
> it was definitely supposed to be more a cry together/comfort each other type of thing and then it became . . . this. 
> 
> furthermore, i wrote and edited this in the same day, so it's a lil rushed and probably littered with grammatical errors, but well, here we are 
> 
> unbeta'd

Sansa sits in front of the fire burning in her chambers, too nervous to do anything other than stare at the flames and wring her hands.

A small platter of cheese and warm bread – though probably cold by now – rests on the small table between the chairs.

It’s getting very late.

He should be here by now.

With so many months since the last time they spoke with any level of honesty, she has a lot of fears that the he will not come. That the plan didn’t work. That he might . . .

A quiet knock in the rhythm only they know immediately makes all doubts fly from her mind, and she moves so quickly she’s sure he must hear her thundering towards the door.

She wrenches it open, and there he stands, older, more lines on his face, his shoulders weighed down with more duty; things she had noticed both in the courtyard and then again at the welcoming feast. Unlike then, however, there is a small smile on his face. A smile blooms on her own, wide and unrelenting, and then Jon sweeps in, closes the door and wraps her in a strong hug.

Her eyes close as they cling to each other, fingers digging in to each others backs, faces buried in the others’ neck, bodies pressed so tightly together she has trouble breathing.

In the courtyard earlier in the day, when he had arrived home with Daenerys by his side, Jon had caught her eye meaningfully right before they’d embraced, but other than that he had given no sign that their plan had worked. He had played his part so well that doubt had lodged heavy in her gut and stayed all through the evening.

She so fervently hopes he is here to share good news rather than bad.

Jon pulls away from her first, and hesitantly she unwinds her arms from him. He pulls off his gloves and drops them on the ground, then raises his hands to cup her face, his thumbs smoothing along her cheekbones.

She reaches one hand up to hold his wrist and closes her eyes again, letting her relief at his presence wash over her.

When she opens them again, his smile turns into a small smirk.

“ _Winterfell is yours, Your Grace?”_ he repeats, his eyebrows drawn up questioningly.

And just like that all her doubt flees her body and she knows that everything is absolutely fine.

Laughter bubbles up, and she brings Jon in for another fierce hug.

“Too much?” she asks, humor coloring her tone.

“It could have done without your long suffering sigh,” Jon replies back fondly, his hand sliding up her back to rest between her shoulder blades. “But it was perfect. Daenerys was thoroughly pleased, which is why it’s taken me so long to get here. She was going on about how misguided mine and Tyrion’s advice was.”

Another smiles creeps up on Sansa’s face. “Well, I’m afraid I’ve done all I can to prepare the Lords, and unfortunately it wasn’t much. She’ll meet a fair amount of resistance tomorrow.”

A pregnant pause makes Sansa pull back from him. His eyes are troubled and his face is pulled down in a frown.

“I don’t think we have long, in any case,” he tells her. “The Night King . . . he killed one of her dragons, Sansa.”

Sansa sighs, then clenches her jaw. She takes his hand, then pulls him over to their chairs, the fire burning low in front of them.

“Tell me,” she demands softly.

Jon leans back in his chair and rubs a hand over his face. “We went north of the Wall to get a wight, to present to Cersei. And Daenerys.” Jon sighs again. “It’s a long story. But she came north, and Viserys died. If the Night King did what I think he did . . .”

Sansa purses her lips as realization dawns on her. “You think he brought the dragon back?”

Jon sighs. “Aye, I do. We don’t have much time if he has. It’s why . . .”

Jon hesitates and avoids her eye.

“It’s why you resorted to romancing her,” Sansa fills in softly.

Jon nods slowly. “You were right, she had very little knowledge of our customs. She truly believes that because I said she was my queen, she is. But she is . . . unpredictable.”

Sansa lets that thought sink in for a moment. Then quietly, she says, “Jon I know we . . . I know we spoke about you, ah, courting her briefly, but I . . .”

Jon shakes his head, cutting her off. She’s a little relieved, because she wasn’t sure what she was going to say anyway, how she was going to articulate the regret she has about even proposing the idea.

He sends her a little smile, but she can easily see how exhausted he is. “It was my choice, Sansa,” he tells her softly, leaning over to take her hand. She grips his hand back strongly, hoping she conveys that she is here for him. “I was scared that it hadn’t been enough, and I’m willing to do anything – _anything,_ Sansa – to keep you safe.”

Sansa turns her head away, hoping to hide the tears that fill her eyes, but Jon squeezes her hand before letting it go so she knows she didn’t succeed. She wipes her eyes with the palms of her hands, trying to bring back some control.

“Besides,” he says softly, a teasing lilt to his tone as he turns to pick up one of the goblets of wine she has set out, “it wasn’t very hard. No woman can resist my pretty face.”

Sansa laughs, a teary, wobbly laugh, and wipes her eyes again. “It’s almost as pretty as mine,” she says back, and takes a drink from her own cup.

“Almost,” he agrees softly, though there is not as much of a teasing tone as before.

Her stomach flutters at the implication, nerves making her tummy tighten uncomfortably, but she doesn’t respond to him, unsure about what it could lead to. What she wants it to lead to. Whether or not they could . . .

Jon clears his throat uncomfortably in the silence following what he’d said, and takes another drink.

“And here?” he asks after a few moments. “Did you deal with Littlefinger? I haven’t seen him.”

She nods, though she first wants to ask about Cersei before she gets into that with him. “It went . . . almost according to plan,” she says, the lifts her eyes skyward. “I’ll tell you about it in a moment. Firstly, what happened with Cersei?”

Jon purses his lips and frowns at her, but she holds his gaze steadily and he relents before she does. “It was fine, I suppose. She’s pledged to come North.”

Sansa raises a brow and Jon shrugs. “I don’t know if I believe it. She was very convincing.”

“That’s how she works,” Sansa says sharply, her fingers clenching on the armrests of her chair.

Jon closes his eyes, frowning, and crosses his arms as he leans back heavily in his chair. “Yes, I know,” he replies tersely. “That’s why I’m not sure.”

Sansa bites her lip, reminds herself to be gentle. She, too, has a big heart, and she knows how close she was to being swayed by Littlefinger about Arya, even though he had such a proven history of manipulation. She cannot berate Jon for hoping for the best.

“Did Daenerys negotiate the truce?” Sansa asks, wondering how the dragon queen did with diplomacy.

“Not exactly,” Jon says, grimacing. “I almost bollocksed it all up, truthfully. It was Tyrion, actually, who finalized it.”

Sansa presses her lips together at this piece of information. “Were you . . . there?”

“Well, no,” Jon says hesitantly. “You don’t think . . .?”

Sansa sighs. “We couldn’t be sure,” she admits. “How has he seemed?”

“He seems devoted to her but she’s . . . she’s erratic. And it’s exhausting. She doesn’t listen to advice, but her own plans aren’t particularly . . . smart. She’s reckless and too ambitious, and it doesn’t mix well.”

“So, Tyrion could have switched allegiances?” Sansa clarifies. “From Daenerys and back to the Lannisters?”  

Jon lets a deep breath, stress making his shoulders tense. “He could have,” Jon replies. “I wasn’t there. No one was there. It was just he and Cersei.”

Sansa shakes her head and wonders if Tyrion would ever turn on them to go back to Cersei. Sansa has heard bits and pieces of the trial Tyrion was subjected to by the Lannisters, how humiliating it had been, and Sansa knows that Littlefinger had been behind Joffrey’s death besides. That, alongside the fact that he had been subjected to all kinds of emotional torture at the hands of his family all his life makes Sansa think that he wouldn’t possibly go back to Cersei.

But she’s been wrong before.

“I don’t think we should worry about Tyrion too much,” Sansa decides, though hastily adds, _“yet_ ,” at Jon’s raised brows. “I’ll look in to it.”

Arya, surely, will be able to sneak around at least, and Sansa can monitor all correspondence leaving Winterfell, though if Cersei and Tyrion have made a plan she is sure it will already have been laid with no need for further communication.

“But we shouldn’t trust the truce,” Sansa adds. “She won’t come North, Jon, and her breaking her promise is the best outcome we could hope for. At worst, she will come North, but with the only intention to murder us all.”

Jon lifts his eyes from his cup, looking at her for a moment. She wonders if he will yet again pledge to keep her safe, but he doesn’t. He looks away from her and into the flames.

“Gods, what a mess.”

Sansa nods. “Truly,” she agrees. “But we just need to follow the plan.”

“Follow the plan,” he agrees, though rather hollowly. Again, she wonders if he’s having second thoughts about the web of deception they have so thoroughly laid, but she doesn’t think that’s it. He, like her, is just so gods damned _tired._

They settle into another silence, in which they both drink more from their cups, but it is broken soon enough by Jon’s curiosity.

“So?” he prompts. “Littlefinger?”

Sansa hesitates, and wonders how she will tell him what happened.

“I had been giving him what he wanted, slowly,” she starts, her finger gliding around the rim of her cup. She can’t look at Jon, not when she’s about to tell him the truth of what happened while he was away. “He believed I was coming back to his side. He didn’t entirely trust me, of course, but I knew he had been spying, that he had others doing deeds for him around the castle . . .”

Sansa sighs, and stops her finger, gripping the cup tightly instead. She starts to bounce her leg, and that is, of course, how Jon knows something truly bad happened.

“Sansa,” he starts lowly, darkly, that fierceness in his eyes that so often comes out when he thinks she needs protecting, “what did he do?”

Sansa scoffs before she can help it. “ _He_ didn’t do anything, which was why I was so scared,” she says. She knows she’s saying too much without really telling him anything, and that it’s making him anxious. She hurries to explain.

“We’ve worked it out now,” Sansa rushes to say. “We’ve come to an understanding, and I’m not at all scared of her now.”

“Sansa,” he says, perplexed. “Scared of _who?_ ”

She pauses again, so wary of telling him everything. She doesn’t want to tell Jon and for him to be upset and to unbalance what she and her sister have worked so hard to achieve.

But tell him she must, because she doesn’t lie to Jon. Not ever.

“Arya,” she admits.

“ _Arya?”_ Jon says with confusion. He leans forward to rest is elbows on his knees, his hands clenched together tightly. “Sansa, what _happened?_ ”

“She came back at a terrible time,” Sansa says. “It was right when I was getting closer to Littlefinger again. She thought I was being manipulated by him. She thought . . . she thought I wanted your throne, and it terrified me that she didn’t believe I was on your side, on her side.”

Jon still doesn’t seem like he understands exactly what she’s trying to get at. “You have to understand, Jon . . . she’s very different to who she was. She didn’t want to trust me based only the fact that we’re Starks. And she didn’t believe that I could have changed as much as she has.”

She remembers the day it was the worst, and she stumbles out a mild explanation to Jon, about No One and faces, and how Arya had wanted hers and threatened to take it. She’s not sure she gets across just why it was so traumatic for her to hear – ( _“Leave her face. I like her pretty,”_ Joffrey had said to her abusers, or Ramsey, who had needed her face, the face of the daughter of Ned Stark, and who had done what he wanted with the rest of her, and then, Arya, her sister, who had said, “ _I wonder what it would feel like to wear those pretty dresses, to be the lady of Winterfell. All I’d need is your face.”_ ) - but a deep frown settles onto Jon’s face, anger and grief and so much regret lined on it that he must have some inkling.

Sansa will never forget that exchange with her sister as long as she lives. It had triggered her so badly that she had stumbled to her room afterwards, hysterical, and she had cried for hours and hours, Sansa doesn’t even know how long. She does know that she sat in front of the fire for long enough that the afternoon and entire night passed without her noticing, and when the sun had broken through her window the next morning she had sought Arya out, delirious from severe lack of sleep, and had confronted her sister. That was when they had realized they were on the same side.

And yet . . . Arya had triggered a deep and intense fear in Sansa, and she had done it purposefully. Arya may be trying to make up for it, and Sansa may not doubt that she and her sister are aligned totally and completely, but even remembering what had happened makes sweat break out across Sansa’s brow and her hands tremble and her breath come short.

She was so scared Arya would kill her.

Sansa wipes away the tears that have fallen, and straightens her back. “We worked it out. She and Bran ended up being extremely useful, in terms of building a case against Littlefinger. Arya was the one that slit his throat.”

“Oh, Sansa,” Jon says. He moves from his seat to kneel before her, and takes her hands in his. “I’m so sorry.”

Sansa shakes her head. “It’s hardly your fault. You can’t protect me,” she reminds him.

“Not from everything,” he agrees regretfully. “But I can from some things. I wish I had been here, so you weren’t alone.”

She wishes that, too, but it had been important for him to be down there, and their plan _is_ working, and for that she’s grateful.

“You’re here now,” she says softly.

“Aye, I am,” he agrees, then softly, “And you and Arya have worked it all out?”

“Yes.” Sansa lets herself smile a little. “I haven’t told her about our plan, by the way, and I’ve been acting really rather upset about the fact that you gave our home away.”

Jon raises two incredulous brows at her.

“So you should definitely expect Arya to defend my honour,” Sansa continues, smiling widely as surprise flits across his face. “She’s very upset on my behalf.”

Jon sputters. “Is that why she didn’t speak to me during the feast?”

Sansa laughs at the reminder of Arya’s surly looks towards both Jon and his so called lover during dinner. “Yes, and do expect it to continue,” she says, then dramatically lays a hand against her heart, “After all, you did give away your poor sisters home to a foreign invader who warms your bed.”

Jon looks absolutely startled with this revelation, and almost like he might burst into tears.

“Don’t worry too much,” Sansa says, sobering as he starts to gape, “we’ll tell her very soon. She’s a better liar than I am. We won’t need to worry about it getting around.”

Jon nods, then gets up from where he’s kneeling. He doesn’t go to sit back down, however, instead getting a log from where they lay beside the fireplace.

“And Bran?” Jon asks as he puts in log in the flames, poking and prodding until it roars back to life.

“Bran probably already knows,” Sansa admits. “He . . . see’s things. He’s not particularly tight-lipped, but he’s a bit of a, uh, manipulator I suppose. He only tells who he wants what he wants in the name of furthering the game. I just don’t know what his endgame is. I assume it’s the Starks in Winterfell, the Night King defeated but . . . there isn’t much of Bran left. I don’t know who is in his place.”

“He wants to see me in the morning,” Jon says. “First thing, he demanded. Before I break my fast.”

“It’s probably just about this,” Sansa says uneasily. “He’ll offer you some insight on how to pull all this off.”

“And if it isn’t?” Jon asks, his back to her, silhouetted by the light of the fire. Sansa starts to shake her head before he even continues. “If it’s about . . .?”

“It won’t be,” Sansa replies. She takes a big swig from her glass as he turns back around. “He’s not said anything to me about that. And he’s not shied away from talking about other unmentionable things.”

She thinks specifically of him mentioning how she’d looked in her wedding dress.

Some of the tension slips from his shoulders. “And Arya?”

Sansa shakes her head again. She lets out a deep breath. “I don’t think she knows either. But she’s very smart, Jon, and very sneaky. We can’t underestimate her. Littlefinger . . . I think he knew. Or at least suspected.”

The both of them stare at each other for a moment. Sansa bites her lip, and Jon’s gaze dips down. She turns away from him first, putting her cup down, then she goes to stand beside him.

They both stand together for a moment, looking down at the fire, but then Sansa sinks to her knees beside him, facing towards him, her head titled up to look at him. His gaze darkens considerably, and Sansa lets a small smile slip through. She has spent so many moons alone, and he has spent so many moons with Daenerys, that she has been unsure what would happen between them when he returned. She’s been so unsure whether she wanted anything to continue happening between them, considering how much of a strain their sins had put on them before he left.

“Sit,” Sansa says softly, patting the space at his feet.

He does as bid, his eyes staying on hers the entire time. They kneel before each other, their hands limp on their knees as they gaze at each other.

“Do you remember -?”

“Yes.”

Sansa laughs at his interruption. “You didn’t even know what I was going to ask!”

He smiles ruefully. “I remember everything about you and I.”

Sansa ponders his answer for a moment, tilting her head. “You remember the night before you left, when you fucked me right here, in front of the fire?”

He swallows deeply, then nods. “I remember the morning, too, when it was sweeter and slower, and I remember thinking that the world could burn down around me and I would not notice if it happened while I was in your bed.”

“And do you remember . . .” Sansa pauses, then turns away from him.

“I remember the promise we made to each other,” he says softly, taking her hand and rubbing his thumb over it. She squeezes his hand and turns back to him.

“I don’t want to keep that promise anymore,” she whispers. “I don’t want to pretend it never happened. I could do it while you were away, but now you’re back I . . . I don’t know how to let you go again.”

He entwines their fingers together. He takes a moment to reply, but when he does, his voice is thick with emotion. “I don’t want to let you go either.”

“This is so wrong,” Sansa whispers, tears filling her eyes. “How could I love my brother like this?”

“Don’t think about it,” Jon whispers back. “I love you too, Sansa.”

Sansa clenches her spare hand, then rubs it over her face and then against her leg.

“Gods, I’d hoped you be the strong one,” she mutters, then leans over to press her lips against his.

He responds immediately, letting go of her hand to cup her face between his hands. They both rise up on to their knees, their bodies pressing together as she winds her arms around his shoulders. One of his hands drops to her waist, the other burying in to the hair at the nape of her neck.

Jon breaks his lips from hers to mouth at her neck, kissing and sucking in just the way that makes her breathless.

“Did you - . . .” She gasps as his hand slides down to squeeze her bottom, pressing their bodies together. She can feel his arousal against her core, and she moans again. It always escalates so quickly between them, they so desperate for each other. “Did you think of me?”

Jon groans against her throat. “Aye,” he says, his grip on her tightening. “I thought of you when I lay with her.”

Sansa’s hands have a mind of their own, one pushing up into his hair to pull the leather cord loose, and the other sliding down his chest to start to undo the laces of his jerkin.

“Did you take yourself in hand and think of me?” Sansa demands as he desperately fumbles with the buttons on the back of her dress.

“Aye,” he groans. “So many times.”

He undoes enough of the buttons to pull her arms from the sleeves, the dress settling at her waist.

“And you?” he demands as he starts it undo the laces of her corset against her chest. “Did you touch yourself and think of me?”

The corset loosens enough for him to free one of her breasts, which he then eagerly takes into his mouth. His beard scrapes against her chest delightfully, and Sansa covers her mouth with her hand after the loud moan that escapes her.

Without moving from his task, Jon reaches an arm up to pull her hand from her mouth and her labored breathing once again fills the room.

He pulls away from her breast, breathing heavily himself. “Well?” he demands. “Did you?”

“Yes, Jon,” she gasps, reaching for him. “I did. I touched myself and thought of you.”

“Show me.”

He leans forward, awkwardly helping her pull her dress over her hips. They laugh as they both caught in all that fabric, but finally he gets her free and tosses the dress away. She pulls off her stockings, too, then her undergarment, then lays down in front of him and spreads her legs.

He groans again, and she knows she must be a sight, her red curls and pink flesh, breathing hard, hair mussed, her breasts spilt out the top of her corset and her legs wide for him.

“Show me,” he demands again, circling her ankles with his hands.

Sansa immediately does as bid, settling back into the rug, one hand resting against her hipbone and the other moving down to her cunt, her long fingers gently circling over her nub.

Her breath hitches, then she quickly settles into a rhythm, moving around in tight circles, just how she likes it.

Jon slides his hands up her legs, then cups under her knees. He pulls her towards him then braces her legs on either side of him.

“Keep going,” he tells her, noticing how her rhythm stutters.

She does as told, moving her fingers faster again. Her eyes close and her back arches, and gods does she love them like this.

Unexpectedly, she feels him push a finger inside her, making her gasp loudly. There is so much pleasure in just this, just in the fact that his finger is longer and thicker than hers and can reach deeper and _gods_ it really hadn’t been the same without him.

He pulls his finger from her just as quickly as he had pushed it in, and she keens at the loss, opening her eyes to stare up at him.

“Now, now, sweet girl,” he murmurs, his curls loose around his face in the most tantalizing way. “I want you to do it.”

He takes her free hand and guides it down to her cunt, and she readily slips two fingers in. It isn’t the same, not even close, especially because he is _right there,_ and she knows her face screws up because he smirks and runs his fingertips down her inner thighs. The feel of that alone is almost enough to make her peak, but she doesn’t, not being given enough. She speeds her fingers up, hoping to make it move along faster, but it makes her two hands fall out of pace, so she goes back to the slower, timed movements.

He can sense her frustration, obviously, because he smirks. “Do you need my help?”

“Yes,” she gasps, “yes, yes, please.”

He hums appreciatively, then places one hand over hers, the one with her fingers buried inside her, and she can feel his calloused fingertips against her and again the sensation adds just what she needs it to, but all he does is guide another of her fingers into her cunt.

“ _Jon_ ,” she whines, “I need you, please, please, just -.”

He hooks his elbows under her knees and then rocks forward, bracing his hands on either side of her, then takes her nipple into his mouth. Her knees pressed against her chest and his teeth pulling against her nipple, she tumbles into her peak, Jon’s name on her lips.

Jon leans away from her as her fingers falter, and he picks up the slack, circling her nub and prolonging her peak. Finally, she pushes him away, sated and sighing deeply.

She stretches her arms above her head, the fire crackling beside her.

She opens her eyes to see his breeches undone and him stroking his cock slowly, looking down at her wet cunt.

“Well?” she says, propping herself up on her elbows. “I did as you asked, my King. Am I to be rewarded?”

His eyes flutter closed at her coy tone, and then he rises up on to his knees to push his breeches down. He leans forward again, hovering over her on one hand, the other guiding his cock to her entrance.

Both of them groan as he pushes inside her. He waits a moment before he moves, letting them both adjust, and in that time she reaches around to rest both her hands on his lower back.

“I love you,” she says, running her fingers over his slick skin. “I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

Jon closes his eyes, then leans down to press his lips to hers. It’s a gentle, light kiss, but it’s so intimate and not for the first time all of Sansa’s shame burns away in the face of her love for him.

Sansa opens her mouth, then licks up the roof of Jon’s mouth. He moans at the contact and starts to move his hips.

Sansa gasps as he does, breathing heavily at the sensation that she has so dearly missed. Jon takes it gentle and slow, and if she had not peaked only moment before she might have protested, but as it is neither of them last particularly long anyway, their bodies slick and pressed together tightly and moving together in such a tuned way.

Afterwards, Jon lays beside her on the rug, their fingers entwined and resting on her belly, their legs entangled, and she rests her head on his arm.

“We won’t be able to meet up like this very often,” Jon murmurs to her as the fire starts to die. “If she gets even an inkling that I am not as devoted to her as I claim . . .”

“I understand,” Sansa says. “We have to think long term.”

“Aye,” he agrees softly. “Stick to the plan.”

Sansa nods. “We can’t speak about it outside these chambers at all. Varys is formidable, and if we fear for Tyrion’s loyalty . . .”

“There isn’t long now,” Jon says. “This war will be over soon.”

Sansa bites her lip. “And after the war? What are we to do, Jon?”

Jon lifts his gaze from their hands to her eyes. “You know I don’t have an answer, Sansa.”

“Neither do I.”

They both shift their gaze.

“If Bran truly does wish to confront you about us tomorrow,” Sansa starts, “you mustn’t deny it. Only if someone else is present should you deny. Bran would only bring it up if it were to steer the situation toward an end goal. Maybe you can find out what that goal is.”

“Is he truly so lost to us?” Jon asks, his grip tightening in Sansa’s. “I don’t . . . I couldn’t bear to have lost another brother.”

Sansa closes her eyes, images of her beloved Robb being betrayed, of Rickon shot down by Ramsey. She doesn’t want to lose another brother, either.

“I hope he isn’t,” she replies quietly. “We must keep our . . . indiscretions secret from Arya, too. My hope is that she will put any oddities in our behavior down to the fact we’re all so different now. She would not accept us, Jon.”

Jon sighs, though he nods his head. “Aye, I can’t imagine she would.”

“Her morals are rigid, confusing and as unaligned from ours as they are. But they _are_ rigid, Jon, and to tell her now would be . . .”

“I had not dreamt of telling her, anyway,” Jon says. “This is our secret. I will protect it, and you, and our family.”

Sansa knows he means Arya and Bran, the Stark family, but she can help but let her hand flatten over her tummy.

Jon’s breath hitches.

“No, no,” she rushes to say, “I’m not . . . I don’t think it’s even possible for me. I just want it so badly, Jon, a family, with you, here in Winterfell.”

Jon leans over to give her a sweet kiss. “I want that too, sweet girl,” he says quietly. “I will fight to give it to you.”

“I know,” she sighs, closing her eyes. “I know you will.”

Sansa isn’t sure how long they lay there, but when she opens her eyes again Jon is snoring lightly beside her – Sansa wonders if Daenerys knows that he snores – and the fire has almost completely died out. A chill runs through her body. The cold must be what woke her.

Sansa nudges Jon gently. “Jon,” she mutters, sleep making her eyes close again. “Jon, wake up. Come to bed with me.”

Jon groans sleepily, but he shifts his body, then sits up, keeping his eyes as closed as possible. They stumble through her dark chambers together, then fall into her bed and under the covers. Sansa’s asleep again within a minute.

She wakes to Jon getting up from the bed quietly.

“Are you leaving?” she mumbles, snuggling further into the furs.

“I have to meet with Bran,” Jon replies quietly. She hears him cross to her side of the bed. He leans down to press a kiss to her hair. “I’ll see you later in the dining hall.”

The thought makes Sansa pop her eyes open. Later, when everything has to change again, when they have to pretend. If this is her last opportunity to see him alone for a while, she wants to kiss him.

She turns in the bed and grabs his hand, and pulls him down for a thorough kiss.

“I know,” Jon whispers as he pulls away. “Go back to sleep, Sansa.”

She watches him leave her bedchambers first, appreciating the curve of his ass and the muscles in his back, and then he disappears out the door to get back into his clothes and leave out into the hall.

Sansa is back to sleep before her chamber door clicks closed.

When she finally wakes properly, she desperately wishes for a bath. She knows it’s too late in the day, though, and so she rises and dons some smallclothes and a shift instead.

She leaves her bedchambers and goes out into the solar. Her handmaiden is cleaning up the room, though she pauses to dip in to a small curtsy when Sansa enters.

“Good morning, my lady,” Kaitlyn greets.

“Good morning, Kaitlyn. Is Brienne outside?”

“Yes, my lady. And your sister.”

Sansa cocks her head. “Oh, well, invite them both in would you, and I’ll decide on a dress for the day.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Sansa turns back to her bedchambers as Kaitlyn goes to open the door. She hears Brienne and Arya enter as she lays two options on her bed.

“Good morning,” she calls out to them both.

Brienne extends a greeting in return, but Arya storms straight into her room. Sansa doesn’t turn and attempt to cover herself, even though she knows her scars will be on clear display to Arya’s keen eye.

She hears Arya pause in the doorway, then her sister regains her composure and blusters further in.

“Have you seen Jon since the feast?” Arya demands, sitting on the bed beside Sansa’s two dresses.

“No,” Sansa lies easily. “Why?”

“I haven’t had a chance to yell at him yet,” Arya grumbles.

“You’ll get your opportunity, as will I,” Sansa says, glancing up to her agitated sister. “Though I appreciate you waiting until you’re both in private to do so.”

Arya rolls her eyes at the praise though her shoulders straighten in that way that Sansa’s knows means Arya’s glad someone took notice of the effort she’s going to.

“Seriously, though,” Arya says, looking to the door. “He disappeared with Daenerys last night and I’ve not seen him since. He hasn’t even been down to break his fast. He used to be an early riser. Is he still?”

Sansa eyes lift back to her sister at the odd question, but Arya is gazing at the door still, with mild concern in her eyes.

“He is,” Sansa confirms, trying desperately to keep any wariness from her tone.

“I’m a little worried Daenerys burnt him to a crisp,” Arya says.

Sansa laughs abruptly at her sister. “Arya,” she says with exasperation, “if she was going to do that, do you think she’d wait until she was in Winterfell to do it? And why would she do it privately? Would she not want an audience?”

Arya sighs in frustration. “Well then where _is_ he?”

Sansa, of course, knows that he’s supposed to be with Bran, but it seems odd that they’re still talking. He must have left her room two hours ago. She’s not sure what Bran could possibly be telling him for such a long time.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Sansa says, then turns to the door. “Kaitlyn?”

Kaitlyn appears by the door and Sansa holds up her newest dress.

“A fine choice, my lady,” Kaitlyn agrees.

Kaitlyn puts away the other dress, then comes over to help Sansa in to the one she’s chosen.

With space on the bed, Arya wriggles back, then flops down.

“Your bed is much more comfortable than mine,” Arya comments. Sansa glances over to her. She’s staring up at the ceiling, though her fingers have weaved through the fur of the bed.

“That’s because I’m more important than you,” Sansa teases.

“Do you think Jon’s bed is this comfortable?”

Sansa blinks, then her gaze hardens on her sister. Again, such an odd question. She tries to recover quickly, and Arya doesn’t turn to stare at her, so she thinks she manages fairly well.

“Well, I don’t know,” Sansa replies, which is the truth – she’s never been to Jon’s bed. “Are you thinking of stealing his chambers from him?”

Arya nods seriously. Sansa tries not to let out a relieved sigh.

“I think he deserves it, don’t you?”

Sansa smiles broadly. She and Arya may have had their differences in the past, but gods she’s glad they’re together now.

“He does,” Sansa agrees, trying not to laugh at the picture of Jon’s face once he realized what had happened, and the accusatory glare he no doubt will have in store for her once he finds out that she’d encouraged Arya’s anger despite knowing how misplaced it was. “In fact, I think you should steal it soon. Today, perhaps.”

Arya sits up, a sly grin on her face. “While he’s off warming the dragon queen’s bed,” Arya agrees eagerly. “Brilliant. I’ll sit on his bed innocently awaiting his arrival. _But it’s not like you need it, Jon_. Brilliant.”

Sansa’s laugh is a little more forced this time. She’s been preparing herself for the jealousy this whole time, but it still hits her a little harder than she’d wanted it to.

A sharp and loud knock on the door to her solar makes Sansa look up.

“Brienne, could you get that please?”

Kaitlyn hurries to finish doing up the laces to Sansa’s dress as they hear Brienne open the door.

“It’s Lord Snow, my lady,” Brienne calls out.

Sansa glances over to Arya, who springs up from the bed.

“One moment!” Sansa calls out, raising her brows at Arya.

“ _Why’s he here?”_ Arya mouths with confusion.

Sansa shrugs helplessly. She has no clue, either.

“Leave my hair for the moment, Kaitlyn. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Sansa walks out of her bedchambers, Arya close behind her.

The sight of Jon makes her stop short. He’s pale and trembling, sweat broken out across his brow.

Sansa’s face darkens at the sight. “Everybody out,” she commands, her tone fierce.

“Sansa –“ Arya objects.

“Out,” Sansa says, turning to glare at her sister.

Brienne nods at Sansa then opens the door. She’s guarded Sansa long enough to know to stand down the hall instead of outside her door right now.

Kaitlyn hurries out after Brienne. As Arya goes to walk by Jon, his hand shoots out to grab her shoulder and stop her.

He shakes his head at her. “Stay.”

Arya jerks her thumb back at Sansa. “But she said -.”

“I know what she said,” Jon replies, then turns to close the door.

The lock clicks in place.

“Jon,” Sansa says uneasily. “What did Bran say?”

“You knew he was with Bran?” Arya demands, crossing her arms.

Neither she nor Jon look at Arya.

Jon purses his lips then goes to take his customary seat in front of the fireplace.

“Sansa,” he says roughly, running a hand over his face. “We may need to change our plans.”

Sansa immediately feels sick. What could Bran have possibly said?

“What _plans_?” Arya demands. Sansa ignores her to walk straight by her and take the seat beside Jon. “What are you both talking about?”

“Jon,” Sansa says quietly, leaning over to take one of his hands. “What did Bran say?”

Jon hesitates, staring into the distance for a moment. His gaze snaps back to focus, and then he turns to her intently.

Then he opens his mouth and starts to speak.

 

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for that little cliffhanger, but honestly this became wildly out of my control around the 3k mark so i had to reign it back in somehow. 
> 
> besides we all know what happens; jon knows the secret, and all that changes is that fact that once they win jon and sansa will get married, hurrah!


End file.
